Scone Cold Dead (23 page)

“Is she the one Detective Tandy talked to?”

Sarah nodded and took a sip of the champagne she'd already poured before Liss and Corrie's arrival.

“Can you prove it was you and not your sister who performed the night Victor was killed?”

She shrugged. “If I have to.”

Liss could detect no nervousness in the other woman's manner. In fact, she seemed mildly amused by Liss's suspicions. “Okay. Let's say I believe you. When did you arrive in Fallstown?”

“Monday. I was planning to stay with Lee Annie in her motel room, even though doing so meant I had to be careful no one else saw me, but then you came along and put the kibosh on that plan.”

“Why didn't you want to be seen?”

“I was trying to keep my private life private.”

“Ray doesn't know about us,” Lee Annie said, sotto voce. “He'd be hurt if he found out she preferred me all along. We were just trying to spare his feelings.”

Liss suspected that knowing the truth might make Ray's case of unrequited love more bearable, but it wasn't up to her to enlighten him. Nor was this particular love triangle any of her business . . . as long as it didn't have anything to do with Victor's murder.

“You traded up from the Fallstown Motor Lodge,” she observed. “Pretty ritzy digs on a Gypsy's salary.” Liss had never even considered booking the members of
Strathspey
into the Sinclair House. It was way too expensive, not to mention a long commute to either Fallstown or Moosetookalook.

Corrie Sinclair, who had all but faded into the woodwork, came alert at Liss's comment, probably wondering if Sarah's credit was good. Ignoring the hotel owner, Liss kept her attention fixed on Sarah.

“How
can
you afford all this?” She waved a hand to encompass the tower suite with its private balcony and fireplace and fully stocked bar.

“Victor Owens.” When Liss goggled at her, Sarah laughed. “You heard that he threatened to fire me if I didn't put out? Yes, I thought you had. And that I threatened to bring charges of sexual harassment against him? The upshot was that he wanted the matter hushed up. He paid me off. I call it my ‘out-of-court settlement.'
Way
out of court, if you know what I mean, and no lawyers involved.”

“Where did he get the money?”

“Don't know. Don't care. I do, however, intend to spend every cent of it having fun. Hence this suite. I'll go back to working for a living when the money runs out.”

“And when will that be?”

“At the rate I'm going? No more than another week.”

“She's a free spirit.” The look on Lee Annie's face combined love with hero worship. “Money doesn't mean a thing to her.”

Liss believed her. After a few more questions, to clarify the timing of certain events, Liss left the lovebirds to their tryst. Armed with Corrie Sinclair's easy-to-follow directions, she went next to what Gordon Tandy had described as his “little house.”

He hadn't been kidding. The place was tiny, a one-story cape on a postage-stamp-size lot. Gordon was just getting out of a dark green pickup truck when Liss pulled up in front. The look he gave her was wary in the extreme. Not surprising, she supposed. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been arresting her best pal.

“I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon,” she said.

“I've been back in the boonies. Out of cell range.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“What do you want, Liss?”

“I've found out a few things that you should know.” He stared at her for a long moment, his expression enigmatic. Then he gestured toward the house. “You'd better come in.”

The interior was warm and welcoming, decorated with comfort in mind but color coordinated and tasteful. Liss wondered if there had been a serious girlfriend, maybe even a fiancée in the picture at the time he'd purchased it. She didn't think it wise to ask.

He settled her at the kitchen table, plugged in the coffeepot, and grabbed a lined tablet. “Talk.”

She surveyed the room, taking in the bright yellow cabinets and the country scenes on the wallpaper.

“What?”

“Just checking for rubber hoses.”

She was rewarded with a flash of temper. “For God's sake, Liss!”

“Sorry.”
Not!
“Gordon, you
did
ask for my help.”

“And you're never going to let me forget it,” he muttered. “I also warned you not to meddle.”

“I tried to reach you.” She attempted to look virtuous, but the glare she got in response warned her she'd better stop teasing the wolf. “I did try the number you gave me. Twice. Then I went to talk to Sarah Bartlett at the Sinclair House.”

“Sarah—? No, wait. First tell me you didn't go alone.”

“I didn't go alone.” Since he was clearly waiting for a name, she supplied it. He cursed. “There wasn't any danger.”

“You didn't know that going in.”

“Okay, I might have made a mistake, but will you please just listen to what I found out? It may be important.”

He gestured for her to continue, too angry, she suspected, to trust himself to speak.

She filled him in on her search of the records and her conversation with Sarah and Lee Annie, then grabbed the pad on which he'd been taking notes and tore out a blank page. While she wrote, he poured two mugs of coffee and set one down in front of her.

“Here's the order in which I think events must have occurred.” She read what she'd written aloud. “First, Victor is ill, but may or may not be getting treatment yet. He's moody, irascible, acting out of character. For one thing, he propositions Sarah. She threatens to sue, which he realizes could cost him his job. He knows he's ill, or he finds out right about then, and he knows he needs the job, and the medical insurance. He offers to pay her off. He takes the money out of the company funds, and that's when he realizes that someone else has already dipped a hand into the till. He figures out who it was. He threatens to turn that person in if he or she doesn't put the money back, plus enough to cover what Victor took. Rather than risk exposure, the embezzler kills Victor and tries to make it look like an accident.”

“Nice theory.” Gordon took a long swallow of the coffee. “Pretty close to one we considered ourselves. Problem is, there's no proof.”

“Is there money missing?”

Still reluctant to share more than he had to with her, he gave a curt nod.

“How much?”

“How much does Sarah say she was paid?”

When Liss told him, he looked thoughtful.

“Well?”

“We've still got people working on the books, and the bank records the board of directors supplied, but it looks like there should have been a lot more money in the
Strathspey
accounts, especially this late in a tour. As much as ten times what Victor paid Sarah.”

Liss gave a low whistle of astonishment. “How could Victor not miss that much?” Then she answered her own question. “He was ill. It had to have started after he got sick. He had his own crazy bookkeeping system, but it passed muster for eight years. He couldn't have been doing too much wrong.”

“Drink up, Liss. Then go home. This is police business.”

“In other words, butt out.” She sighed and reached for the coffee. She might just have to follow that advice. She was fresh out of bright ideas.

Chapter Eighteen

“F
iona?” Liss called as she let herself into Aunt Margaret's kitchen by way of the back door to the apartment.

It was the first time she'd used that entrance in some time, since it could only be reached by climbing a flight of outside stairs. They were snow-covered and slippery in winter. They weren't any prize today, what with the rain pouring down again. Mud season was in full swing.

“Fiona? Emily? Winona? Anybody home?”

“In here,” came Fiona's muffled voice, and Liss followed the sound to the bedroom. “Hello, Liss. Winona is with Ray, making a check of all the equipment and costumes and props.”

“I did see the bus parked in front of Dan's house.” Liss felt dumb for not realizing what that meant. “And Emily?”

“I think she's trying to turn over a new leaf. She volunteered to help Winona. So, what brings you calling?”

Fiona was packing, as Liss supposed many of the members of
Strathspey
were. They'd finally decided to move on. First thing tomorrow, Monday, they'd be on the road, making the eight-hour drive to Clifton Park, New York, for a performance that evening.

“I'm at loose ends,” Liss admitted. “It's Sunday, so the Emporium is closed. Sandy and Zara are so busy billing and cooing at each other that they barely know I exist, and Lee Annie . . .” She hesitated, not sure how much to tell Fiona.

“It's all right. She phoned me. She's leaving the company at the end of the tour, just as I am. You're going to have your work cut out for you, Liss, finding replacements.”

“Uh, about that. Fiona, I lied to you. I don't want Victor's job. I won't be applying for it. That was just a ploy to get a look at the company records. I thought I might find something that would help me figure out who killed him.”

“I see.” A flash of annoyance crossed her face. “Did you?”

“No.” Restless, Liss wandered the bedroom as Fiona continued to sort and fold the clothing she'd just laundered using Aunt Margaret's washer and dryer. The desk beside the window was littered with paperwork, everything from the company's schedule for the rest of the month to the rental contract for the car Fiona had been driving. She'd have to return it today, Liss supposed, glancing idly at the date at the top. She'd rented the car on March 8 and this was the sixteenth so she probably owed the rental company a pretty penny.

“I don't suppose I could convince you to change your mind?” Fiona said, emerging from the closet.

“Not a chance.
You
could stay on as manager.”

“Get stuck with the job, you mean? No, thanks.”

“They need you, Fiona.”

“Well, I don't need them.” She had started to say more when they were interrupted by a knock at the back door. “Now what?”

“Shall we go see?” The last thing Liss wanted was to quarrel with one of her old friends. “And while we're in the kitchen, I'll make us a nice cup of tea.”

“Good idea,” Fiona said. “I baked bread this morning. I'll slice it and we'll have some toast and jam to go with it.”

Beth Hogencamp stood on the small landing outside the back door. She was a picture of reluctance, head bowed, eyes on the ground, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she waited for someone to answer her knock. In one hand she clutched an envelope.

She looked up when Liss opened the door and seemed surprised to see her. Her gaze darted to Fiona, then back to Liss. “I wrote the letter,” she announced.

For a moment, Liss couldn't think what on earth the girl meant.

“What are you doing here?” Fiona looked up from the bread board, serrated knife in hand, scowling when she caught sight of Beth. “Haven't you caused enough trouble?”

“I came to apologize!” Beth sounded defiant.

Startled, Liss stepped back and let her in. What had happened to that shy little girl? Or was this just bravado? It took courage to admit to being wrong, to confess to bad behavior. Liss knew that from personal experience.

Fiona snatched the envelope Beth held out to her, ripped it open, and read the letter inside. Then she swore ripely.

“Fiona! Language!”

“I'm sure she's heard worse in the schoolyard. God, I hate children!”

“Then why on earth are you planning to teach them?”

As soon as Liss asked that question, it was as if something clicked in her brain. Pieces fell into place. Glaring inconsistencies stood out as if written in neon.

Fiona was lying about her plan to open a dance school. Her obvious dislike of young people made that plain. She'd
said
she was going to teach dancing because it was a logical thing for a retired dancer to do, and retired dancers, unless they were independently wealthy, still needed to make a living.

Fiona had a “nest egg.” She'd said so. And now Liss was pretty sure she knew where that money had come from.

Fiona had not been taking a nap on the afternoon of the day Victor died.

Something Dan had said days earlier came back to Liss in a rush. His sister, Mary, had made
two
trips to the cabins to ferry someone in the company into Fallstown proper. That had been Fiona. Both times. Because Liss had given Fiona Mary's phone number herself. A specific volunteer had been assigned to each member of
Strathspey
staying at the cabins.

As Liss's thoughts tumbled, one after another, into a line that pointed straight to Fiona, a sense of despair settled over her. The other woman's guilt suddenly seemed so obvious. Why had it taken her so long to notice all the clues?

Fiona's cabin had been in sight of the one that had been broken into. Had she used the other unit to bake the scones or had that been a red herring? More likely, Liss thought, she'd prepared them in her own oven, covering up the evidence by making spaghetti—with mushrooms in the sauce—the next day.

But it was the date on the rental contract for the car that cinched Liss's certainty. March 8 was the day of the performance, the day of Victor's murder. Fiona had picked up the car on Saturday, not Sunday, giving her the mobility to carry out her scheme as well as a place to hide the mushroom-filled scones until she was ready to smuggle them into the kitchen at the Student Center.

Shock left Liss reeling. She couldn't stop herself from staring at Fiona, nor could she disguise the revulsion she felt.

Fiona's eyes narrowed. “You never could hide what you were thinking.”

“Beth, get out of here!”

“I don't think so.” Fiona caught hold of the girl with one hand and grabbed the knife she'd been using to slice bread with the other. Before Liss could blink, the serrated blade was digging into Beth's throat.

“Fiona, you don't want to do this.”

“Do you expect me to go docilely off to jail? I did kill Victor, you know. But you've already figured that out, haven't you?”

“Fiona, you'll only make things worse if you—”

“Shut up.” The knife pierced Beth's neck, drawing blood. The red seemed very bright against her pale skin and the yellow rain slicker she wore. Beth's big brown eyes, wide with fear, silently pleaded with Liss to save her.

“Okay. Okay. You're right, Fiona. I guessed what really happened. But if you let Beth go and get in your rental car, I promise I won't call the cops. I'll make sure you have plenty of time to get away before I even hint that you're missing.”

“You don't lie worth a damn, either, Liss. And you'll do what I tell you to do. For starters, hoist yourself up on that stool with your back to me and put your hands on your head. Keep your eyes straight ahead. Don't move. Don't even think about moving or I'll slit the kid's throat.”

Liss obeyed, but Fiona hadn't said anything about not talking. “You thought Victor's death would be ruled an accident,” she ventured, “but once the police suspected murder, you knew you might have to flee at a moment's notice.” She'd head for the Canadian border, Liss realized, remembering the phone call she'd overheard. Superorganized, Fiona had a contingency plan in place. “You were prepared to run, but surely you never intended to take a hostage?”

“Shut up!”

Behind her, Liss heard Fiona give a series of commands to Beth: “Open that drawer. Take out that roll of duct tape and tear off two strips, each about three inches long. Now two more, each about eight inches long.”

Liss winced at the sound of ripping tape but she tried to tell herself that this was good. Fiona was going to tie them up and leave them in the apartment. Someone would come eventually. Emily and Winona would return within the next few hours. Nobody would get hurt.

When Fiona ordered Liss to lower her hands and hold her wrists together behind her back, she obeyed, though she couldn't contain a grimace when someone, probably Beth, wrapped them with the duct tape. When Beth moved in front of her to apply one of the smaller pieces to her mouth, Liss saw that Fiona had already used the other one. The girl's eyes were wide and terrified above the strip of gray. Her hands trembled as she pressed Liss's gag into place.

Liss sent her what she hoped was an encouraging look, but she wasn't at all sure the effort had been successful. How could it be when she was just as scared and shaky as her young neighbor?

Fiona jerked Beth out of Liss's line of sight, barking an order: “Don't move or turn around.”

More sounds told Liss that Fiona was taping Beth's hands. Then she heard footsteps leaving the kitchen—Fiona and Beth going to the bedroom for Fiona's suitcase, already conveniently packed. Liss considered making a run for it, but she couldn't abandon Beth. She stayed put. After a moment, they returned.

“Stand up,” Fiona ordered.

Liss obeyed. She expected to feel duct tape being wrapped around her ankles, preparatory to leaving her behind. Instead, Fiona tossed one of her own coats, a navy blue poncho, over Liss's head, effectively hiding her bound hands.

Liss froze, unable for a moment to grasp what was happening. When she did, she spun around and was dismayed but unsurprised to find that Beth, tears streaming down a face leeched of color, was carrying Fiona's suitcase. Her hands had been taped in front of her.

Fiona, who had donned a coat, wrapped a scarf around her head turban-style and put on dark glasses, once more calmly pressed the blade of her knife to Beth's throat.

Liss went cold with dread. It was not the same knife Fiona had used before. She'd upgraded, exchanging the serrated blade for a butcher knife, one of the ones Liss's aunt kept well sharpened.

“Listen carefully, Liss. We are going to go downstairs and get in my car. I'm not willing to take the chance that you'll be found too soon, so you two are coming with me. When I get close to the border, if you've been very, very good, I'll let you out of the car. Do you understand me?”

Liss nodded. What choice did she have? Irrationally as Fiona was behaving, Liss couldn't take the chance that she would injure, or even kill, Beth Hogencamp.

Fiona flipped the hood of the poncho over Liss's head, partially concealing the duct tape over her mouth. She did the same with the hood of Beth's rain slicker. It was still pouring out, raining so hard that Liss doubted any of her neighbors would realize that Fiona was leaving with two prisoners.

They went down the outside steps single file, Liss first. Fiona followed close behind, one hand gripping Beth's arm and the other holding the knife.

“Get in,” Fiona ordered, opening the back door.

Liss had never realized how difficult it was to balance while climbing into a car. With her hands fastened behind her, she had no way to steady herself when her weak knee buckled. She ended up in an awkward sprawl across the seat. Fiona shoved Beth in after Liss and slammed the door, obviously unconcerned about seat belts. A moment later, she was behind the wheel and had started the engine.

 

 

Dan Ruskin stood at his living room window staring out at the rain-swept street. He'd just watched three people get into the dark blue Dodge Stratus Fiona had rented and drive away. There was something peculiar about what he'd seen, but he was having trouble putting his finger on what it was.

“Was that Fiona in the turban?” Stewart wandered through from the direction of the kitchen, a freshly opened can of beer in one hand.

“Yeah.”

“Odd.”

“What is?”

“That's her rental car, right?” At Dan's nod, he looked momentarily bemused. “Why would she have rented a car on Saturday?”

“It's Sunday, Stewart.”

“Not today. Last Sunday. That's the earliest she
should
have rented it.”

“Let me get this straight—you saw Fiona driving that car
before
Victor Owens died?”

“Isn't that what I just said? It was well before we knew we'd be stuck in this godforsaken backwater for more than a week. That's what I meant when I said it was odd. Of course, I didn't realize at the time that the woman driving that car was Fiona, but I do remember the turban. I wondered then why she seemed familiar, but I did not pursue the matter. I had other things on my mind.”

Translated, that meant he'd been looking for a place to buy beer. “Are you sure?”

Stewart gave him a haughty look and his accent got even more plummy. “My dear fellow, I am not drunk all the time. I know what I saw.” He took a long swallow of Keystone Light before he wandered off again.

No, he wasn't, Dan thought. And with shattering abruptness, he knew what it was that had bothered him about what he'd just seen. Both of Fiona's passengers had gotten into the back of the car.